She would know...if she saw this post and realized that I was born on this day in the largest city north of Utah's capitol in the mid-1960's, she would know that I was that baby, the baby she delivered then allowed someone else to raise as their own.
Did she ever question her decision, either before or after I was born? Did she hold me in her arms? Did she cry knowing the life she carried would not grow to call her "mom" or run to her when knees are scraped or feelings hurt?
I talked to a friend this week who adopted three children. We talked about how things have changed over the last 40-odd years. He met and knows the mothers of those children which I find fascinating, not because it's wrong, but because it's so different than what I experienced.
Has she ever wondered what kind of person her son grew up to be? Was he successful with a big house and a high-profile job? And kids, did she have grandkids, a daughter-in-law--or maybe ex-daughters-in-law? Would those who raised him love him as much as they could?
I don't like the term birth mother--never have. It's not a bad term, necessarily. Yet, I can't bring myself to call her my mom because that term's reserved for a woman who earned the title. No, my birth mother's more than just a birth mother. She's a special person I've never met who cannot possibly know how her selfless decision changed everything.
Does she think about me?
Yes, if somehow she read this post, she would know it was her son writing. Maybe she could see herself in that adorable baby face. Or maybe something else would let her know. I don't think about her a lot, but I did today. So, wherever you are, I'd just like to say thanks, thanks for everything.